...THE YEAR IS 1999...

... GORBACHEV IS STILL AT THE HELM OF THE VAST U.S.S.R. THE IRON CURTAIN HAS CRUMBLED AND RELATIONS WITH THE REST OF THE WORLD ARE BEGINNING TO THAW. I HAVE THE CENTRAL ASIAN COUNTRIES OF UZBEKISTAN AND KYRGYZSTAN IN MY SIGHTS AND WONDER IF NOW IS THE RIGHT TIME TO POUNCE.

IT IS...BUT FIRST THERE IS THE PROBLEM OF A DODGY VISA.

Oct 8, 2010

1. WHY UZBEKISTAN?

UZBEKISTAN?

Travel to out of the way places 2016 is fraught with untold danger - if it's not the fear of a Zika bight then it's the thought of a terrorist attack.

But back when I packed my bag and set off to a destination I could barely spell much less locate on a map international travel of the type I was contemplating was in comparison a whole lot safer.

Sure, Russia had only a short while before eased their border restrictions, though as I very soon discovered they hadn't thought to tell all their minions that the rules had been changed.

Considering I was traveling with a dodgy visa and loaded with some undeclared American dollars I guess I was very lucky to survive the trip.

Happily it turned out to be the trip of a lifetime.

***

SOLO THROUGH CENTRAL ASIA

A confirmed wanderer I had since childhood been fascinated by stories of the fabled cities of Samarkand and Tashkent and of the ruthless men who rampaged through those pages of Central Asia’s history. I had already explored the far north borders of India, always wishing I could go that little bit further, infiltrate the iron clad borders of the U.S.S.R.

An application for solo travel to various Central Asian ‘Stans’, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Turkmenistan was met with stony faced refusal by Canberra’s Soviet consulate. Apparently they hadn’t been told the new communist catch words were perestroika and glasnost. Undeterred I decided to try my luck in Singapore where good fortune put me in touch with a charming young travel consultant I have chosen to call Mitzi.

Where I had received polite shrugs but no help Mitzi with a few little white lies worked the impossible, return Aeroflot tickets to Uzbekistan, a tourist visa of dubious authenticity allowing landing and departure in Tashkent and entry to a string of other towns and cities, and more important, to other Stans, and a flight that left Singapore the very next morning. Mind you it cost me a pretty penny but I certainly wasn’t going to quibble.

A hurried phone call to my husband back in Australia who I sometimes fondly call the Reluctant Traveler , he does like to know where I might be at any given time, and I made the rush trip to the airport with his strangled voice echoing in my ears... ‘Uz where?’

After scouring the airport money changers for small note USA currency, I then took one extra sneaky precaution against the unexpected. I padded my sale price but still very expensive Reeboks with the added insurance of $20 and $50 bank notes.

We were an interesting bunch boarding the Aeroflot flight that day, the queue at the ticket counter included a number of Asian businessmen. In front of me stood a young man who looked for all the world like a young Aussie surfer, shorts, tank top, thongs and a sun tan that reeked of Bondi Beach.

He was however none of the above, young Sergei was returning home to Kiev after a holiday with his ‘auntie and uncle’ in Melbourne and his luggage he informed me, was packed with chocolates and toothpaste and other goodies he said his Mum hadn’t seen for a long, long time.

Behind me in the queue was a slip of a girl weighed down with an oversize backpack who from the moment she uttered her first words I immediately knew was a Kiwi, a New Zealander. She was flying through to Moscow on a cheapie connection that would land her in Manchester some time in the next week. We offspring of the Southern Cross are an adventurous lot; she would see Moscow, and for a moment I wondered why I had no inner urge to go there.

Perhaps, as I found during much of my travels preferred wandering is all a matter of predestination.

Pre-warned on the vagaries and shortcomings of Russian airlines and booked on the long Aeroflot haul from Singapore to Tashkent I wondered just what I might encounter. Should I for instance take along some survival gear, packet of bickies, dried fruit, a good stiff drink?

I needn’t have worried. The Aeroflot flight itself to Tashkent proved a delight, the food was good and wine was plentiful though warm; my fellow passengers were both interesting and erudite; the only downside for some were the absence of movies and overhead lights. The entire cabin remained brightly lit during the entire, long night and I had to lean against the window, cupping my hands around my eyes to prevent the bright interior drowning out my view of the dark world below.

I snuggled into my window seat for the flight west to Delhi where the plane would refuel and take on more passengers before flying due north into the night sky, next stop Tashkent. Seldom had I felt so excited.

The topography of China and India’s far north regions were no strangers to me and as the plane lifted into darkness on the last leg of my journey I could visualise to the far east the brooding Tien Shan guarding China’s northernmost ramparts, and closer still the Himalayas standing sentinel over the extremities of India and Kashmir.

But now as the aircraft banked to the northwest I could clearly see racing toward me an ever changing horizon of myriad valleys and mountain peaks. Unfolding below I had a grandstand view of the mighty Pamirs, that seemingly impenetrable mountain border that separates the Indian and Persian sub continent from the exotic lands of Central Asia.

Around me, sleeping passengers snuffled and coughed, Muscovite Russians returning from cheap holidays in Delhi, diamond merchants from Bangkok, turbaned and pyjama clad Indian workers on their way to menial jobs in the newly awakening lands to the north.

Sheltered and cocooned in the Aeroflot aircraft slowly droning its way ever closer to Tashkent I sat hunched towards the window. Below moonlight glistened on snow, a vast silvery void broken by small clusters of light spilling from remote hamlets. Occasionally a brief tracking of headlights from unseen vehicles signaled human presence, the moon reflecting on lakes and twisting rivers.

I couldn’t sleep, how could I when every mile drew me closer to the land of Tamerlane, to Tashkent and to Samarkand, to storybook tales and overly tinted photographs in old National Geographic magazines, to a history and a dream that had fascinated and drawn me ever closer until now, with the break down of the U.S.S.R. I had at last found a way to make it all a reality.

I was fairly drunk on the euphoria of exotic travel, the expectation of new places and faces. Again I blessed the good fortune that brought me and Mitzi together.

Little did I know at that precise moment, just what was waiting for me when the Aeroflot plane landed at Tashkent’s international airport... it was certainly no welcome committee!

About Me

I started writing about my travels under Rainbow Robs banner 50 years Round the World, mostly solo trips to odd destinations. But then I fell under the spell of family history, lots of true secrets, lies, intrigue about people long dead. All this soon morphed into tales about Straddie, about Fiji, about my husband, the Reluctant Traveler; just about anything under the sun...

If I have an obsession it is family history. Blessed with some extraordinary forebears, I've not been content until I've uncovered every small facet of their lives. Trouble is, new clues, new twists keep popping up, adding more grist to my history mill.

The fun part about writing blogs are the comments readers send, the knowledge so many of you in far distant places are taking the time to read my stories. Thank you for sharing your lives with me.

For those of you who discover we are distant kin or have a point to make or a question to ask, do send me an email or leave a contact. You will see a link in my Blog profile ... either way a comment, anonymous or signed is always appreciated.